


in your sight

by live_die_be



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drabble, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:06:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_die_be/pseuds/live_die_be
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a love story played out in old motel rooms, with frayed sheets and carpets worn thin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your sight

**Author's Note:**

> oh, god, i've never posted anything original here and i'm feeling super self-conscious. this is something very outside my comfort zone.

It's a love story played out in old motel rooms, with frayed sheets and carpets worn thin. There're cigarette burns on the comforter and the stains on the mattress are questionable at best.

Time does not mean anything here, neither do bonds, or debts, or promises.

It's like a well-scripted movie, with a soundtrack of thunder and lit up with lightning. The air is humid and the ceiling leaks in one corner, it's a dreadful place and it's really only fitting with the way that you feel.

The ricketly desk in the corner is strewn with crumpled papers, a fountain pen tossed to the side is leaking shadows over scribbled out words. His writing, his poems, about the taste of skin drenched with morning dew.

You don't talk, at least not in the conventional way with words. The two of you communicate in a carefully scripted dialect of touches: the language of lovers. He traces either letters out onto your bare back, fingers dancing along your spine, and you mouth the words into the side of his neck.

His breath stinks of alcohol, and you know yours does too. The bottle is a heap of glass; there's a hole in the wall where he smashed it. You step carefully, but find a shard anyways. It hurts, but only slightly. Everything is muted and soft and distant. Even he is, as he lifts your foot and plants a kiss where the sole is red and sticky.

It tickles, you laugh and dance away, hair flying with the movement. He follows, and that's the point: that's the game. He will always follow you. You stand by the window, lean out far enough that he loops and arm around your waist so you don't fall. You almost wish he wouldn't, almost wish that he'd let you fall, that he'd leap after and you'd be together in those seconds and then never apart.

You breathe in deep the scent of the ozone-thick air, bow your head out the window and shout wordlessly into the rain. 

The dusky dawn filters in through the clouds, a sticky stream of light that seems to travel slower here than anywhere else. The dust motes, like small creatures with lives of their own: flitting, flying, floating in the brightness.

Time is a concept belonging entirely to another person's life.

Nothing else matters. Today may end, or it may not, and you would be fine with either. This, right here, this matters. This moment, this second: this matters. 

This, for now, is everything.


End file.
